Isabelle's request regarding Katrina had lingered in the back of Albert's mind for exactly three seconds before he filed it under "Low Priority." It wasn't that he was heartless; he just knew Katrina.
The girl was a walking fortress of prickly pride and academic intensity. He'd known her since their first year, and if there was one thing he understood about the MacDougal sisters, it was that they were both equally stubborn—just in different directions.
Isabelle had likely thrown the request out as a casual thought, a "nice to have" rather than a genuine expectation that Albert would suddenly become a protective big brother.
Besides, Albert was a busy man. Between managing his growing potion side-hustle, dodging the twins' latest experimental disasters, and trying to fundamentally rewrite the thermal laws of magic to build a refrigerator, he didn't exactly have "tutor for a grumpy genius" on his schedule.
However, he did find himself spending more time in the Defense Against the Dark Arts office. His attempts to coax the Undetectable Extension Charm out of Professor Smith had become a recurring comedy of errors.
"Concentrate, Albert! Focus your energy!" Smith had told him during their last session, leaning back in his chair and gesturing vaguely at a pile of ancient parchments. "The Undetectable Extension Charm is a logistical miracle, yes, but for a mind like yours? It's a distraction. You have the potential to be the greatest Runic Master of this century. Don't waste your limited youth on bag-enlarging spells when you could be deciphering the foundations of reality!"
Albert had stared at him, utterly speechless. Smith had even thumped his chest for emphasis, looking like a man who truly believed his own hype. Albert believed in his own potential more than anyone, but his "life goals" didn't involve being a dusty scholar in a basement. He wanted the charm because he wanted a portable workshop, not because he lacked focus.
Then came the kicker. Smith had leaned in, his eyes gleaming with a strange, frantic light. "Of course... if you were to help me find the legendary Ravenclaw Chamber—the real one, the hidden repository of knowledge—I might find the time to tutor you in those more... 'practical' charms."
A window had pinged in Albert's mind: [Quest: The Ravenclaw Legacy. Objective: Assist Professor Smith in locating the hidden sanctum.]
Albert's internal alarms went off. Ever since his first year, he'd felt something "off" about Smith, but now it was becoming palpable. It was a psychological itch he couldn't scratch. The Professor didn't just want to teach; he wanted to make history. He wanted a legacy, and he was trying to use Albert as the shovel to dig it up. Albert didn't mind being a genius, but he hated being a tool.
Yet, he didn't pull away. Smith was still an incredible source of advanced theory, and Albert was—as Isabelle pointed out—greedy for knowledge.
He wasn't the only one. Katrina had begun appearing at Smith's office with a frequency that suggested she was trying to set a world record for "Extra Credit." The girl was tired of being the third-best genius in the room. Being eclipsed by her sister was a lifelong burden, but being surpassed by Albert—a Gryffindor from the same year—was the final straw. She had recognized the gap, and instead of despairing, she was trying to bridge it with pure, unadulterated spite and hard work.
She began cornering Albert in the library more often. She didn't ask for "help"—she asked for "clarification of the answer." Albert, never having been a natural teacher, usually just gave her the direct logic or the final result. For a mind like Katrina's, that was enough. She would take the answer, tear it apart to see how it worked, and discard the rest. Her progress was terrifying; she had left every other student in their year in the dust.
As January crawled toward its end, the weather remained a dull, frozen misery, and the Wizard Card Club held its monthly gathering.
The initial hype had cooled significantly. The Great Hall wasn't crowded with spectators anymore; the "tourist" players had moved on to the next fad. Only thirty-four dedicated members remained—the ones who actually cared about the strategy rather than the novelty.
"We missed the peak, Albert," Lee Jordan muttered gloomily as they set up the tables. "We should have launched the tournament weeks ago. Everyone's bored now. The club is shrinking."
"Relax, Lee," Albert said, stacking a fresh deck of cards. "A game that relies on novelty dies in a month. A game that relies on strategy survives for decades. We're trimming the fat. The people left here are the ones who will actually make the community grow."
Lee didn't look convinced. He'd put his soul into the promotion, and seeing the numbers drop felt like a personal failure. "If we don't do something big soon, we'll be playing solitaire by Easter."
"Quality over quantity," Albert reminded him.
Albert had spent the last two weeks devouring Ultimate Transfiguration and Extraordinary Transfiguration Charms. He'd used a chunk of his saved experience to bump his Transfiguration Skill to Level 2, hoping to fix the biggest issue with the cards: the lack of dynamic updates.
He'd spent nights in the dormitory failing, surrounded by scraps of parchment and "messy" cards where the images looked like melted wax figures. Professor McGonagall had told him he was "aiming too high," though she couldn't hide the pride in her eyes when she saw the complexity of the theory he was attempting.
"Alright, everyone, listen up!" Albert announced, standing at the head of the table. "I have the latest batch of improved cards. Lee, pass them out."
He distributed a special set of 'Lee Jordan' cards he'd spent all night perfecting. "I've applied a linked Transfiguration matrix to these. They aren't just paper anymore. I've designated a 'Master Card'—the one I'm holding. When I update the stats or the image on the Master, the 'Slave Cards' in your hands will update automatically, no matter where you are in the castle."
He tapped his card with his wand. On every card in the room, the image of Lee Jordan suddenly winked and adjusted its hat. The text below the image shifted from "Beginner" to "Standard Participant."
The room went deathly silent.
"You... you cast a permanent linked Transfiguration?" an older student whispered, his eyes bulging. "Albert, that's... that's S-Level theory. That's something you see in the Ministry's communication systems!"
"It's just a basic application of the Protean Charm's principles combined with localized Transfiguration," Albert said, trying to sound humble and failing miserably.
"Basic?" another student shouted. "You're in your second year! You're not supposed to even know the word 'Protean' yet!"
The older students were reeling. To them, Albert was no longer just "the smart kid"; he was becoming something unrecognizable. A wizard who could bend the curriculum to his will.
Field, the older girl from the Transfiguration Club, watched with a smug grin. She had been the one to help Albert through his first clumsy attempts at these high-level charms. She'd seen how fast he learned, but even she was impressed by the stability of the link.
In the corner, Truman's face was a map of complex emotions. He and Albert used to be peers—equals who traded tips on charms and runes. Now, looking at the glowing, shifting card in his hand, Truman realized the gap was no longer a gap. It was a canyon. He felt a pang of jealousy, sharp and cold, but it was quickly replaced by a profound sense of awe. He decided then and there that instead of trying to compete, he would start asking.
"So," Field said, leaning against a table and smirking at the crowd. "Since we're all witnessing history here... let's talk about the other rumor. The one about you and a certain Ravenclaw genius being more than just 'study partners'?"
The tension in the room shifted instantly from academic awe to pure, hungry gossip. Every head turned toward Albert.
Albert rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw his own brain. "Field, you're a menace. We're here to finalize the tournament list, not discuss my nonexistent social life."
"A 'non-answer' is basically a 'yes' in Gryffindor speak!" someone shouted.
"We need exactly thirty-two players for the bracket," Albert said, raising his voice to drown out the chatter. "We have thirty-four. Does anyone want to volunteer to withdraw and become an official referee instead?"
Two girls immediately raised their hands. They clearly valued the chance to sit on the sidelines and gossip about Albert more than they valued winning a card game.
"Great. Lee, finalize the names," Albert said, handing over the ledger. He looked at the sea of curious, expectant faces and felt the sudden, overwhelming urge to be literally anywhere else. "As for the rumors... we're ordinary friends. She's helping me with a research project involving thermodynamics. It's very boring, I promise."
"Thermodynamics? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" Field teased.
"I'm leaving," Albert declared.
Before the first question of the next wave could even leave someone's lips, Albert performed a flawless Disillusionment Charm on himself and vanished. The only sign he'd been there was the soft click of the door closing and thirty-two glowing cards that continued to hum with the residual power of a second-year student who was rapidly outgrowing his school. 🃏💨